All three of the D's are on soccer teams. They all have games on Sundays.
Son D. is a fabulous soccer player. He's on a team of other fabulous soccer players. they have a fabulous coach and a solid team of many players. They have regular practices and cute, custom uniforms.
Daughter D. seems to have inherited my VERY SENSIBLE fear of balls barreling towards her at 100 mph. (Hey she's in U8 now, they can kick hard.) She only has 4 people on her team, total, so they don't get much rest. (It's 3v3 and the other teams seem to have 10+ people.) None of the team members are particularly proficient in the game of soccer. They are great kids and someday they will be, but for now, they resemble the Bad News Bears of soccer.
I know that I should swell with pride when I see son D. score goal after goal. And I do, really, I do. His team regularly scores more goals than I can count. He scores a lot of them.
But my *true* moments of great-mama-bursting-pride occur when daughter D. goes anywhere near the ball. I think she missed 2 or 3 goals tonight. But she kicked it! Tentatively, yes. In the wrong direction, occasionally. To the wrong team, often. But she kicked it!
Today, her team only got one goal. The other team seemed to get hundreds.
I've always got a sore spot for the underdogs. (Hey, I was a Red Sox fan for most of my life...this winning thing - it's still a bit foreign.)